‘Forgive Me For Forgetting You’

Photographer David Cleofas Avila writes and makes art & music to better square away the sequelae of life. Residing in the Susan Fleming family collection, curated by L. Marx, David’s art has been priced by Ames Gallery, recognized at the National Arts and Disability Center UCLA, and published in Peatsmoke Journal, Gabby & Min, NUNUM, The Words Faire, È-phemeros Project, Harpur Palate, Eleventh Hour Literary, and Reservoir Road Literary Review.

Forgive Me For Forgetting You

Red has always been my favorite—that particular shade of vermilion in which I've wrapped my superficial aspirations: the Ferrari I sketch idly during conference calls, the underwear I've superstitiously worn to every promotion interview, the shade I once painted a swatch of on our bedroom wall before Peyton's veto. Now, trapped at the third consecutive traffic light, I found myself resenting this lifelong affinity. Each new light stretched seconds into minutes, minutes I couldn't afford and that weighed my conscience for my failure to leave the office in time to buy Peyton roses. 

The night before we had one of those silly fights that escalate and become a huge deal, but you can’t even remember what it was about in the first place. Likely where the towel was resting. She was so mad she overslept this morning. Probably on purpose to avoid having to say bye to me. I had intended to leave her an apology note and freshly brewed coffee before I left. However, I also overslept after the stress from the fight kept me up all night. That was strike one, now the roses were strike two… The chances were she wouldn't still be mad. After six years married these quarrels come and go, and if I couldn’t remember what it was about, she probably would have forgotten as well. 

It had been a tough year for our relationship, but nothing to worry about after being together for so long. Still, I knew I could be doing more. Like getting her roses on my way home. It was too late now as I entered the two-bedroom house we overpaid for last year and were still struggling to call a home.

“Honey, I’m back!” I announced. Peyton used to be staffed at a respectable newspaper, but when we made the move to the suburbs of the suburbs for my job, she had to transition into freelancing. I saw it as an opportunity for her to focus more on her fiction writing as she was a terrific novelist of many unfinished romances. She didn’t see it that way yet. 

“Babe?” I questioned as I saw a shadow run across the room and into the kitchen. 

“Get out of my house or I’m calling the cops!” She shouted. “You picked the worst house to rob, buddy. I have a gun, my husband will be home anytime now, and the neighbors across the street are a cop and a judge.”

“Your husband is home. I’m pretty sure you are anti-guns and the McConnells are lazy motherfuckers who steal pool equipment and live off unemployment.” I rationalized. 

But my logic fell deaf to her craziness. For whatever reason, she decided to plunge at me with a cast iron. 

“Aaaaahhhh!!! GET OUT!!!” 

I was afraid for half a second, but she looked adorable in attack mode. Lucky for her it wasn’t a real intruder. I effortlessly circumvented her charge and neutralized her.

“I don’t know what kind of joke you’re playing, but if this is because of last night, I am sorry. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what I did. I love you and I promise it won’t happen again.” When I was a kid, I would refuse to apologize whenever my parents tried to force me to. I would argue it would make me a worse person if I said it without meaning it. After marriage, you learn the true value of the word sorry. 

I hugged her from behind as she struggled to let loose from my embrace. When I lowered my guard to kiss the top of her head, she bit my forearm. Not a couple’s playful bite. The only sexy thing there was the red from the blood leaking out of my broken skin. 

As I screamed in pain she bolted toward the front door, but she tripped on the briefcase I left on the pathway. I knew I would hear about it either now or later. I assumed now, I assumed her annoyance at me doing something she repeatedly asked me not to do would be enough to break her out of whatever crazy and intense theater act she was putting on. But I assumed wrong, and she rushedly tried to get back up and open the door without even muttering a curse word at the briefcase or me. 

“Peyton, wait! What are you doing?” I asked, tired of this.

“How do you know my name?” She shot back to my confusion. “Have you been scouting my house? Did you know I would be home alone and vulnerable so that’s why you decided to attack?”

“Is that what this is about? You being alone because I’m an hour late for dinner?” I asked, but she stared at me blankly. I had enough so I got up and slowly walked toward her. She watched me closely but did not try to run. It was only when I attempted to kiss her that she slapped my face. “What is wrong with you?! I can’t even kiss my wife after a long day at work anymore?”

She inspected me up and down and giggled, “Your wife? That’s funny.”

I put my hand on her forehand checking for a fever. She seemed fine, and still unconvinced, so I grabbed her reluctant hand and showed her the matching wedding rings. If it wasn’t enough, I showed her the names engraved inside. 

“I’m confused…” she muttered in a soul-crushing way. 

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Peyton. Peyton Conner.”

“And mine?”

“Daniel Conner. I just read it inside the ring.” 

I immediately took her to the hallway wall where a collage displayed photos of us and of us with our closest friends and family. I pointed at every single face that inhabited our wall, and she could name every single one. Every single one of them, but me. She was even able to name my third cousin Steve who was only in the photo because he can’t take a hint. I couldn’t remember his name until she said it. 

“Are you feeling okay? Any dizziness or nausea?” But she simply shook her head. I wouldn’t characterize Peyton as having the greatest of senses of humor. For that and other reasons, like the true sadness and confusion stamped across her face, I believed this was real. 

The next day at the doctor’s office, Peyton went through all the possible exams to the detriment of our deductible. I didn’t know what it could be and soon learned the doctor did not know either. She said all the exams indicated Peyton was healthy. They actually indicated she was annoyingly healthy for somebody with her sedentary lifestyle and Ben & Jerry’s based diet. 

“It could be a temporary loss of memory associated with stress or high anxiety levels. I will ask for a few more exams so we can check everything, but the important thing is that her MRI doesn’t show anything out of the ordinary or alarming.” Explained the doctor seemingly not realizing how out of the ordinary it was for a woman to not recognize her husband… “In the meantime, I would recommend you do things that could trigger her memory to come back. Show her the meaningful places from your relationship, tell her memories, and play her songs. Use her senses to trigger remembrance.”

No sooner said than done. Right after the appointment, I took Peyton to Giovanni's - the overpriced Italian joint where I tried to impress her on our first date. I even ordered the exact same things: the Brunello to drink, Caprese salads to start, the carbonara for me, and the cacio e pepe for her. 

“So?” I asked anxiously as she took her first bite of the mozzarella. 

“Nothing yet…” She said shoveling the salad down her throat and almost drowning in the wine. She was really trying to remember. 

“It’s okay. Maybe if I recount a little bit of our date, it will refresh your memory.” She nodded with her sweet smile. “Well, I was extremely nervous but so excited you accepted my invitation. Maybe you can try to remember how I asked you out?” I could see on her face that she was unsuccessfully doing her best. To be fair, I wasn’t too sure of how me asking her out had gone down either as we were both tipsy at a bar.

When the waiter came to refill our glasses, something sparked in her. “Wait! Didn’t the waiter end up tipping over my glass last time? I’m pretty sure it ruined my favorite dress.”

“Oh yes, that did happen. But you looked sensual with the spilled red wine. It almost seemed deliberate.” I argued to a roll of the eyes and an under the breath “I loved that dress…” from her.

I proceeded to hype her dish before she took a bite. If there was one thing I remembered clearly, was how delicious her cacio e pepe was. A look of bliss took over her face when she tasted the dish – that same look from our first date that scared me about how quickly I seemed to be falling for this woman. Subsequently, I took a bite of my carbonara.

“Huh… How’s your pasta?” She inquired like someone who already knew the answer. 

“It’s good! It could use a little bit more--” 

“Salt?” she interrupted me. And she was right. “I guess I slightly remember you not loving your dish as much as mine, which made me feel somewhat guilty.”

“True. But you so kindly ended up sharing your pasta with me last time. Which was great because we both got to have a little bit of each.”

“No. I recall you making me feel kind of bad. You were complaining so much about how unfair it was for my pasta to be so much better than yours that you guilt-tripped me into sharing mine.”

I did not remember that. I’m not one to guilt-trip anybody. If it had really happened, she would not have agreed to a second date. Or the many other dates that came after and eventually led to our proposal. She still didn’t remember anything related to me other than these small incidents on our first date, so I figured going back to one of the most important moments of our lives together might be a good refresher. 

I had Peyton blindfolded the whole drive. Two hours and twenty-five minutes according to Waze, so a brisk two-hour drive according to my gas pedal. She was totally afraid, especially the couple of times I pressed the brake out of the sudden as a prank. She still didn’t remove the blindfold proving that even though she couldn’t remember me, instinctively she still trusted me. 

The air was fresh with a hazy and citrusy aroma. The view was dominated by orangish red. I don’t care if it’s cheesy, but I love flower fields. Especially the poppy flower field where I popped the question.

“We need to leave. Now.” She stated, making her way back to the car.

“What? Do you not remember?”

“Do YOU not remember?” But I had no idea what she was talking about. “I’m highly allergic to poppy seeds!”

“Good thing I took you to a flower field and not a New York deli,” I quipped. The look on her face revealed the timing wasn’t right for jokes. “This is where I proposed to you. In the middle of the flowers. I even handed you a bouquet.”

“Yes, after I warned you, it would be best to leave. It’s unlikely I’ll have a reaction just being here, but it’s possible. Now that I think about it… I gave you this speech before. Wasn’t it when you rushed into proposing?”

It was. I had a whole picnic planned and the afternoon was supposed to be very romantic. Now that I think about it, I do remember being extremely nervous, and once she mentioned the allergy I decided to propose anyway because I didn’t think I could wait another hour and forty-five minutes driving home with the ring box burning a hole through my pocket. 

The last time we were here the drive back was filled with distracting kisses and caresses, which made the actual driving very unsafe. This time she barely spoke to me, but for the whole hour and a half I felt even more unsafe.

It seemed like she was able to remember a couple of details with these exposure therapies, but the pace of the progress wasn’t encouraging. I was worried it would take a miracle to get things back to normal. Which is exactly why I figured we would end the day at a church. The church.

The St. Basil’s church features 7,200 square feet of worship area, stained glass that is happy and pretty, instead of scary and depressing, a flower garden in the back (with plenty of roses, but no poppy flowers) and on-site parking for all the guests. This was the place to get married, and through a little rubbing elbow and more with the priest, I got us a spot on a sunny Saturday morning in early May. There would be absolutely no way for Peyton not to remember at least the highlights. Our parents crying and hugging, her little shy cousin reluctantly walking the rings down the aisle, or the sparks from our first kiss as a married couple.

“I think I know where we are,” she muttered.

“Of course, you do!” I said kissing her, which she was still not used to as her first instinct was to pull back.

“We got married here,” she started, but before I could hug her out of happiness, “I very clearly remember us fighting because I’m not at all religious and didn’t want to support the Catholic church by marrying in one.”

“Yes, but--”

“Oof, it’s coming back to me. I remember almost calling the whole thing off when you told me about it and when I asked you to look at other venues you said--”

“--I had already paid the deposit!” I could tell she wasn’t happy, but at least she was starting to remember things on her own. “Look around. If you ignore all the baggage the Catholic Church brings, this place is a Shangri-la.” 

She shrugged. A shrug in agreement!

Back home, she wasn’t much more enthusiastic. I decided it was time to sleep in my bed again. Last night I had taken the guest room to give Peyton some space, but she now believed I was her husband.

“Hey, this is good. We made real progress today,” I tried to calm her.

Her response was to kiss me on the cheek, but after a second to reconsider, she gave me a proper kiss. 

“I love you,” I said, but I could tell it made things even more awkward, “you don’t have to say it back yet. I get it.”

“Thanks.” And silence took over until she added, “I do find you very attractive by the way,” she said messing up my hair and putting both hands on my cheeks. 

“You lost your memory, but not your taste,” I answered playfully messing her hair back. “I find you very attractive too. Especially your smile,” I said, truthfully but manipulatively as I knew it would result in her showing her teeth. I was sad and afraid about what was going to happen, but whenever she smiled, I felt at home. We smiled at each other feeling the closest we had since this whole incident started. 

That’s when my masculine presumption took over. At the moment it seemed like the most brilliant idea ever: plow the memories back into her. If breaking bread at a restaurant and strolling through a field had elicited minimal recollections, a transcendent full-body experience seemed destined to bring it all back.

I started slow, holding her hand for a few seconds before using them as a lever to pull myself near and close the gap between us. I kissed her neck, and then gave her a few seconds to process. Her silence was the opening I needed for my kiss to take the elevator from the neck to the face, with a final stop at the mouth. At first, she seemed into it. Or at least she was putting up with it. It was once I turned up the intensity of the mouth movements and gestured to place my body over her that she stopped me.

“Wait. I’m not so sure about this.”

“And that is totally fine. I don’t want to pressure you. But I am your husband.” Her response was to stare at me for many seconds. I was ready to give up when she kissed me! Afterwards, she kissed my neck! The elevator was going down again, and I hoped the final destination was where I was thinking.

“No, this feels weird,” she said shattering my hopes. 

“Why don’t you let me take over and if you still think it’s not working, I’ll stop?” I said, now being the one taking the Southern route.

“Oh, my God! OH MY GOD!!”

“Umm… I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I haven’t started yet.”

“No! I remembered something about you!” She said enthusiastically, making me extremely excited my plan was already working. “You’re not great in bed, are you? You and I don’t have much chemistry together.”

“What? That’s not right, you must be confused still.”

“No, no, no. I definitely remember. Our sex is kind of stiff and rough in a bad way. It-- It hurts because it doesn’t feel right, not because it feels too right. You and I go at it for about seven minutes on the clock, you usually finish on my belly button and make some stupid joke about a pool of swimmers, and if I get to come it’s because I take out my toy!”

 “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m pretty sure you’re misremembering things and--”

“--If I’m misremembering things, would I be able to gesture the precise size of your penis with my hands?” She asked bringing her hands up not too far apart.

“Good night.” It had been a long day for the both of us and it was time to call it.

She quickly opened and closed her bedside table drawer. I knew she was confirming the location of her unrealistically large vibrator.

“What about when we had sex in the car behind the Home Depot parking lot?” I asked a couple of minutes later not being able to fall asleep. “Remember the time we got caught by a dude walking by, but we kept going anyway?” It had been one of the most fun moments we had.

“I guess I remember the back pain I had the next day. Your Fiat is too small for car sex.”

“What about when we took that art history course together and we spent late nights studying as if we were in college again?”

“I remember you kissing me too much and studying too little. If it were college, we would have failed thanks to you.”

“Horseback riding on the beach was a top ten moment for us. Remember that?”

“I was scared, and you left me behind.”

“Wine tasting in Napa.”

“I could buy three twenty-four packs of my favorite lager for the price of one of those bottles.”

“Our vacation to Argentina!”

“That was nice. I remember having a good time, but I did get a pretty bad cold the last day.”

By that point, I was beaten down and in tears. It felt like nothing mattered, “Can you remember anything about our relationship on your own?”

All she did was shake her head. Now she was the one starting to tear up, probably frustrated because of where we were. 

“Six years together and there’s really nothing you can remember? Think, please…”

“I’m sorry…” I could see it on her face that she wanted to as much as I did, but it just wasn’t happening.

“It’s okay…” 

“Wait…” she muttered, filling me with hope. “I think--” Suddenly she got anxious. It seemed she remembered something troubling. She sat up, turned on the lights, and looked me straight in the eye, “didn’t I ask for a divorce?”

“What? That’s insane. Why would you do that? And I’m pretty sure I would remember if you did.”

As I mentioned before, we were going through a little bit of a rough patch. But I wouldn’t even call it a rut. A divorce was nowhere near our future.

“I did. I’m pretty sure I did, I kind of remember handing you the papers two nights ago…”

“Babe, I know you’re going through something right now, but we’ll get over this. There’s no need to rush into anything.”

“Where’s your briefcase?”

Fuck. I knew me leaving my briefcase by the front door would come back to bite me. It sure didn’t help it had been lying by the door for the past twenty-four hours… We both got up and marched to it. 

For a long minute, we stood regarding the briefcase between us, a leather-bound Schrodinger's box containing either vindication or undoing. She hovered with certainty while I projected confidence—after all, it was my briefcase, I knew what was in it: the quarterly reports stacked with precision, that leadership book whose spine remained stubbornly uncreased after eight months of good intentions, and likely some forgotten snack reduced to crumbs.

When Peyton's fingers twitched toward the latch, I intervened—this moment of gentle correction belonged to me. I lifted the case to the couch and released the clasps. Wedged between corporate ambitions and an obliterated granola bar, was a bright red file folder which I had no recollection of putting in there. My hands, like my mind, betrayed me with their trembling as they extracted divorce papers I had no memory of receiving, yet they were covered in red ink from my own scribbles…

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and though her eyes still searched mine for recognition, I had never seen such clarity in them before.

Gustavo Melo (he/him) is a Brazilian satirical writer with a successful track record of one failed marriage by the age of 25. Knowing little about smart financial decisions he got a highly practical master's degree in writing for screen and television at the University of Southern California. You can read his work on the Feminine Collective, Apricity Magazine, Boookends Review and other publications.